


Plaid Shirts and High Heels

by RussianWitch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Het, No Plot/Plotless, Random Encounters, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2606270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See tags pretty much random scene with Sandor and Sansa in a modern setting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd  
> Completely random

 Somewhere in the ceiling, she can hear pigeons cooing.

The sound draws her from the lazy post-coital doze she's been enjoying to the annoying conclusion that her lover is missing. 

Lover...she decides to stick with lover, the alternatives are just too crass.

Sansa  knows he can't have gone far, but waiting until the grumpy bastard decides to come back doesn't appeal. She fishes his shirt from besides the bed; it's soft with age, worn in and saturated in his scent. One toe on the concrete floor confirms that she has no choice but at least wear her boots if she wants to go look for him.  She wonders if he'll like seeing her in his clothing and nothing else. Men are supposed to like that sort of thing.

He's in what is supposed to be the kitchen poking at something in the pan. A pair of grimy sweatpants barely covers his ass, and once upon a time, she'd have been horrified by the state of him. Now, with him still dripping from her it isn't so bad, in fact, it's a sight she'd like to see more often.  Confident he's heard her coming, she jumps up on the table to watch him in relative comfort. 

"Come to your senses yet?" He grunts not bothering to face her. She watches the muscles in his back shift and roll with every move he makes, blushing when she sees the narrow welts she's left on his skin while he fucked her.

"You could have woken me up."  She hopes to hell he won't notice her blushing while remembering having him inside of her.

"You aren't a vegetarian or some shit like that?" Sansa laughs at the question.

"I considered it, but mother wouldn't allow it." She'd been very upset about it then, now throwing tantrums about a fad seems foolish. Sandor was right all along: she'd been an idiot, chances are she still is.

"Smart lady, your mum." He finally turns grimacing when he sees her sitting there on his table wearing his shirt and her own boots. At least looking down gives her the certainty that he doesn't mind as much as she'd think going by his face. "You look like a whore." 

"Really?" She muses looking down at herself,  "I figured that I'm pretty much covered up." Fiddling with the top button on the shirt she deliberately spreads her legs still covered from throat to mid thigh and perfectly decent except for sitting bare-assed on the cold table surface. 

The pan clatters back on the stove and before Sansa knows it he's hovering over her growling under his breath like the animal he's nicknamed for. His rough hands cup her knees, then slide up her thighs pushing the cloth of the shirt out of the way. Sansa whimpers when thick fingers prod further pinching her clit and making their way into her body.

"Jesus, you're still wet." Sandor curses fucking her with two fingers while rubbing across her clit with his thumb wrecking her without even trying. 

"Well, I don't know where the shower is—plus I kind of like the idea of having you inside me." She can't believe that she doesn't stutter, tripping over the indecent words. By the look of Sandor he can't believe it either. 

"Fuck, you're going to be the death of me girl." Pulling his fingers out of her he brings them to his mouth glistening with her juices, licking them clean with relish that makes her squirm. "'S as good a way to go as any, I suppose." His fingers clean, Sandor pushes her flat and tears the shirt effortlessly to expose her breasts. 

He lunges at her with a curse, mouthing at her throat and down to sink his teeth into the already tender flesh. Sandor's lips and tongue worry her nipple and all Sansa can do is clutch at him and moan. His hands hook under her legs, spread them as wide as they will go until she can feel him flush against her core only separated by the sweatpants. 

"Sandor—," she pulls on his hair to get his attention and gets bitten in retaliation. Absently she wonders if she'll have to think up an excuse for all the bites and bruises if this continues for any amount of time. Sandor is not gentle by any means, but that's not as bad as she would have expected before experience taught her otherwise .

"Don't complain girl! This is what you wanted coming in here, otherwise you'd have gotten your shit and left," Sansa decides that trying to get his pants off is far more productive than talking back. He might get it into his head that she actually doesn’t want him to fuck her again or something silly like that. She can't quite reach with her hands but one spike heel catches on the material and she can kick and pull the fabric off that way. 

Annoyed when they get tangled up, Sandor pulls away much to Sansa's displeasure but thankfully he only untangles her heel from his sweatpants, shoves the pants to his ankles then forces her legs around his waist rubbing his hard cock across her nether  lips. She wants him in her, but all Sandor does is tease tracing her entrance with his cock and worrying her nipples with his fingers to watch her squirm. In the end Sansa has no other choice but to grab his cock and force him inside of her. 

He grins down at her and not for the first time Sansa is amazed by how the smile transforms his face. Sandor grunts when she locks her ankles behind his back uncaring if the heels dig in or not. He sheaths himself in a single thrust, too big,  too rough and just right covering her with his body . The table creaks under their combined weight but holds well enough for Sandor to set a punishing rhyme driving into Sansa like he's aiming to split her in half.  She tangles her fingers in his hair pulling him down to bite at his lips then force him further down to nurse at her breast. He cants her hips, arches into his touch egging him on to fuck her harder. He laughs when she pulls on his hair and bites at her neck lightly. 

"Looking to take a pound of flesh?"  He challenges rubbing his scars across her soft flesh and only gets a pleased moan in answer. 

"Already took it—," she manages to giggle like a little girl while clutching at him with her internal muscles and spurring him on to fuck her harder by jabbing her heels into his back. Sandor likes her that way: reckless and free, all propriety forgotten, the only time when he doesn't have to share her with anyone.

He reaches between them flicking her clit and listening to her sing out her pleasure. She bares her teeth at him sinking her claws into the skin of his shoulders raking them down his chest. Her fingers rake through the hair there until they catch on his nipples and give a vicious twist. 

With a growl of "Vicious wench!" He pulls out leaving her indignantly gaping until he flips her to her stomach shoving back in, slapping her ass when she protest.

"Let's she you try to claw me now!" Not that he minds, but the way she moans and clenches around him tells him that she likes it. Sandor keeps her pinned tight rooting into her mercilessly like a dog with a bitch driving both of them to completion. 

She mumbles something into the table top he can't quite catch, so he grabs her lovely fiery hair forcing her head back until he can hear her clearly again.

"Sandor, please! Please—please—," he loves the sounds, far better than any other song she might sing. He trails his hand down her back, slips it under her and between her legs teasing her clit and feeling himself slid into her. Neither of them lasts long after that, Sandor slams into her again and again uncaring of the bruises Sansa is going to have  on her thighs or that she's going to be sore as hell  for the rest of the day.

She comes for him, clawing at the table and squeezing him tight before slumping across the table like a rag doll. He grinds himself inside, her whimpers music to his ears as he finds his release. By some miracle he manages to drop onto a nearby chair as he drops leaving her body. He curses watching as Sansa lazily rolls onto her back practically purring with contentment. She looks obscene: auburn curls, cunt and thighs glistening with both their juices casually on display, breasts heaving red marks he's left behind on the lovely mounts already turning into bruises. Her face is the prettiest of all: dazed eyes and slack mouth, her hair a mess.

It's almost enough to get him hard again, except they don't really have time for it if Sansa is to keep up appearances as the ruthless bitch CEO. Briefly he wonders where they are supposed to go from here; one night of screwing doesn't mean a thing, not that he'd insist on any rights even if the situation was different. 

Having caught his breath Sandor gets up and picks the girl up off the table. She happily wraps her arms around his neck leaning in for a kiss. Somehow he manages to get them to the bedroom while not paying attention where he's going to dump her on the bed. She bounces prettily and laughs, her heels catching on the sheets.

"Is there a shower somewhere in this—abode?" He snorts at her description: some things even life can't beat out of a person.  She's polite even when she's cutting the competition down, not surprising that Sansa tries to be diplomatic about his living space. 

"It's even got hot water." He waves towards the far wall that hides the industrial washroom. Sandor is happy to watch her ass wiggle as she gets up and starts gathering her things from the floor frowning at the state of them. If anyone catches a picture of her looking like that, there is going to be hell to pay.

"Next time we're either going to my place, or you're warning me to I can take an overnight bag." The commanding tone makes him want to fuck her all over again, then the words sink in.

"Next time?" He questions dumbly and her face falls.

"If—I apologize, Sandor, I shouldn't have assumed." Turning away from him she clutches her things tighter and marches off towards the shower, "I'll be ready to leave in fifteen minutes." 

"Now wait a second!" He goes after her grabbing a delicate shoulder to look her in the eyes. "I never said I didn't want—Look how the fuck am I supposed to know you're not slumming?" Sandor barely manages to catch her hand before it connects with his scarred cheek. Eyes blazing, teeth bared in anger she really is the wolf bitch everyone whispers about in the corporate circles. 

"How dare you!" He grabs her other hand as well just in case overly aware that he's still naked and he can't control her legs without hurting her. "I would never! How can you even think I'd sleep with you just—," she finishes with a wordless scream of frustration but all he can do is shrug.

"Don't know any better." He's been a bodyguard since he'd been discharged from the army, rich girls throwing themselves at him for kicks isn't anything new even with his face. They never bother with a second time and he stopped expecting it a long time ago. 

"Sandor—," she chides softly suddenly looking suspiciously like she's ready to burst into tears. 

"Just tell me straight out what you want, woman! You know I don't like games." Neither does she really, he knows that, but bad habits die hard in both of them.

"I want us. I want to see if and 'us' works." Used to be she'd have been talking about marriage and babies from the get go, Sandor remembers her starry-eyed devotion to his former employer and marvels at how far they've come.

"Works for me," he shrugs and, now sure of his welcome, picks her up to throw over his shoulder. 

"Sandor!" She squeals grabbing at his ass and trying to knee him in the chest but he ignores her heading for the shower. He doesn't bother to pick up her clothing, it's wrecked anyway so the floor won't do any more harm. If the dress is beyond salvage, she might even take one of his shirt again to cover up again.


	2. Chapter 2

"You should teach me how to fire a gun."

He snaps his head around from where he's been concentrating on cleaning his gun to look at Sansa who's stopped reading through the mountain of paperwork on her desk and is leaning back in her chair filing her nails.

"You don't need to learn how to shoot a gun. By the time you have to fire a fucking gun, you'll be fucked anyway," Sandor doesn't bother to say that it would mean that whoever was attacking her would have gone through her security team and him by the time she'd have to protect herself out loud.

"I'm told it relieves stress," she looks up with a sweet smile and an evil gleam in her eyes.

Sandor can't say that the idea of her with a gun does nothing for him, but she shouldn't have to think about shit like that. Considering what Sansa has already gone through to get where she is, teaching her how to shoot isn't exactly a bad idea but he still hates it.

"So does fucking," he grumbles feeling a certain deprivation after a week of having the girl fall asleep on him before they even reached her front door. Sandor isn't a stranger to the schedules of the rich and powerful, but they hadn't directly inconvenienced him before.

"Sandor!" She yelps, possibly scandalized and certainly amused. He finishes up with the gun leaving the cleaning supplies strewn on the fancy coffee table and shoving the gun back in it's holster. Self-appointed task behind him, and without much else to do, he goes to loom over the woman who just smiles up at him: quite a change from her barely being able to breathe from fear in his presence. "We cannot fuck," Sansa grimaces at the word, "in the office—," she trails off glancing over to the office door that has a lock, "can we?"

Sandor really likes the way she wiggles in her chair just thinking about it. The skirt Sansa is wearing rides up as she does and Sandor is distracted by her silk clad legs and the happy memory of having them wrapped around his waist. He wants to find out of she's wearing stockings or a hose, even more he wants to hear her squeal as he rips het panties off of her. She pokes him in the leg with the toe of her pump and he remembers that they are talking.

"Want to lock the door and find out?" He watches her face as Sansa decides if she's willing to cross anther none existent line. Even if they don't lock the door, even if anyone looks; Sansa owns the place anyway and even if she didn't, no one would say a thing anyway, not with him around.

"I still have three reports to go through—," she starts but falls silent as soon as Sandor goes over to the door to flip the lock.

"Get rid the paperwork girl, or you're losing it," he warns her stalking back, she tosses the nail file onto the desk just before Sandor pushes her chair against the wall making room for himself. Kneeling doesn't go as fluidly as before, but he manages enjoying the way Sansa blushes when he spreads her legs wider to make room for himself. The skirt gets in the way; he hooks his thumbs under the hem and pushes it up until the tops of her stockings come into view. Black lace against milky skin, Sandor traces along the edge exploring the contrast of soft skin and rough lace. Sandor lifts her up pulling the expensive material of her skirt up over her ass until the only thing separating him from her cunt is another overly delicate piece of lace that allows just a peek at the fiery curls that surround it.

"Don't know why you bother wearing those, not like they last." She lets out a startled scream as Sandor destroys yet another pair of panties stuffing the shreds in his pocket. Sansa glares at him, but that doesn't last long, not with him leaning in for a taste. She opens up under his mouth, arches into his touch as soon as he noses her lips open whimpering as his stubble abrades tender skin and the ridges of his scars catch on her flesh. Sansa's hands finds their way into his hair almost at once grabbing almost painfully tight. He knows the girl is still nervous that someone is going to walk in on them or some shit like that, and it only makes her taste sweater.

She squeals again when he nips gently at her inner lips then licks firmly across her clit. The little nub is already swollen and almost throbbing under his tongue, he can feel her gush as he sucks on it; her juices making a mess of his face when he works his way down to delve inside of her licking at the slick walls of the channel that tries to grab at his tongue. When he comes up for air Sansa whimpers at the loss of sensation. Her fingers while where they dig into the leather chair back, he hadn't even noticed her no longer grabbing at his hair.

He likes this look on her: still a proper buttoned up lady above the belt, and a needy mess below... "Sandor please!" She demands and he cannot disobey, not that he would, going back to licking her cunt delicate flesh almost raspberry with need. As far as Sandor is concerned, he could do this all day: have her riding his face until she faints from exhaustion. "Sandor!" She doesn't sound commanding all too often, even when ordering people around she tends to request rather than demand: only with him does she let the wolf on occasion and he has to choice but to obey.

"You're going to work for it." He decides reluctantly pulling away and stranding up. She grabs at his belt to pull him back but he dodges her grasping hands and goes back to the couch. Sprawling out he watches her face twist in displeasure as she's left sitting behind her desk. "Come here girl." She huffs in affront but gets up pulling her skirt straight to his annoyance only to unzip and step out of it as soon as it's in order.

"Put your hands on the back of the couch, I don't want you touching." As she stalks him Sansa pulls the clips out of her hair dropping them as she goes. He's always liked her with her hair loose, funny how she knows it despite him never having said a word about it. Sansa looks like she's surrounded by flame stalking up to him to kick his legs apart.

"Getting bossy now, my lady?" He remembers to wipe his face, wipe her juices up and lick them off his fingers before complying with her demand and putting his arms on the couch back. Sansa doesn't bother to answer him, kneeling down between his legs and briskly opening his belt and jeans. He closes his eyes cursing when her land closes around his dick, dainty finger playing over heated skin petting and stroking until Sandor has to dig his fingers into the leather to keep from reaching out and forcing her head down so Sansa will take him into her mouth already.

He opens his eyes to the sight of her licking her lips, bending her head to swipe her tongue across the wet head of his dick. She takes him in sucking and licking sloppily, driving him insane, one hand on the base of his dick and one palming his balls. Sandor digs his fingers into the leather of the couch to keep from reaching out to grab her by the hair.

On occasion he's imagined what it might feel like: to wrap her hair around his dick, jerk off into the flames. If she finds out, Sansa is bound to be scandalized: that's part of the attraction. "Damn it, girl!" He curses when her teeth scrape across his skin as she fights to take more of him in. She almost chokes before pulling away to gasp for breath looking up at him with dazed eyes as she gulps air before diving back in. His hips stutter before he gets himself under control again wondering how long she's planning on teasing him. "Are you trying to kill me wench?"

She laughs against his skin and leaves scratches across his abdomen as she lashes his dick with her tongue. "Are you going to teach me to shoot?" Sansa murmurs against his flesh massaging his balls.

"You don't need to shoot." He growls slapping her hand away when she reaches for his holster. She giggles against his skin and suck him in again. "You don't need a fucking gun in your hands." She hums around him and Sandor sees stars. It's the final drop, he lets his self control go, digs his fingers into her hair and pulls her off his dick and into his lap. "And I've had enough of your playing around!"

He doesn't give her a chance to orient herself, just sinks in balls deep. She sings for him and digs her nails in cursing when he slaps her ass. "Now get us off woman!" She curses again the words always sounding filthier somehow because it's _Sansa_ using them. Getting her knees under her and grabbing his holster for leverage she lifts up and lets herself drop. Sandor has to resist the urge to comment that her riding form has improved compared to all the times he'd had to watch her suffer on an actual horse.

She bites her lip in concentration and he has to choice but to drag her down for a kiss. Sansa tightens around him, grinds down into his lap and he swallows her cry of release. Grabbing her tight, he fucks up into her while she slumps onto his chest moaning into his ear. He comes when she sinks her teeth into the side of his neck and squeezes down. Sandor slumps back against the couch holding his little bird against his chest and wondering how he's supposed to sit in this office the next day without getting hard just thinking about this.

"I still want to learn how to shoot." She murmurs against his scars as he slaps her hand away from his holster again.

"I'm not teaching you." He grumbles burying his face in her hair.

"I've decided that I want to learn. So if you don't do it, you're going to have to watch someone else—" She doesn't have to finish for him to imagine someone else wrapped around her showing Sansa how to aim properly, grabbing at her to correct her stance.

"Damn it Sansa! You don't need to know how to shoot." She kisses the rest of his objections away, and he feels himself starting to stir again.

"In fact I already made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon." She ignores his cursing massaging him with her inner muscles until he's hard again and considering throwing her onto her back to fuck the idea out of her. "We've going during lunch when it's quiet." Sandor curses rolling them over promising himself that the girl is going to be limping by the time he's done with her. If he can't talk her out of it, at least he can try to fuck her raw in revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

The cold is starting to bother her, but all Sansa can do is grit her teeth and try not to shiver. The silver fur coat helps with that somewhat, but the heels that go with the dress are mostly straps and she can't feel her toes any longer. The sounds of a struggle alert her that she won't have to wait any longer, followed by a man stumbling out of the shadows to land on his knees just out of her reach. Looking down at him, Sansa still feels an edge of terror sawing at her nerves right up until three more shapes detach from the shadows and Sandor is once more at her side.

"Your _pets_ have brought you a present, Little Bird." He grumbles slumping against the car with something close to a sulk.

Jaime Lannister laughs, "You should know all about being a pet,  _Hound_."  Giving the man at their feet a kick when he tries to get up. "As my lady commanded, one Meryn Trant for your _pleasure_ ,"  Sandor growls at Jaime's words, or maybe it's the tone that Sansa has gotten used to ignoring since the disgraced colonel has started working for her. "What do you want us to do with him?" Brienne interrupts before the men can get into their usual pissing contest.

There are a lot of crimes the prone man can be held responsible for, Sansa could order her two 'knights' to deliver him to the police who have been looking for him as well...

But that would mean he'd get to live, her back twinges in protest at that thought. "Did you have trouble finding him?" She steps forward to get a closer look at the prisoner who obviously put up a fight when they captured him.

"Everything went fine, my lady." The tall woman hurries to reassure her.  "Well—I did get my hand scuffed up—" Jaime manages to complain before he gets an elbow in the stomach for his trouble while waving the prosthetic he inexplicably sprays painted gold in the air: some of the paint has flaked off the knuckles and fingers. "I'm sure that this is easily helped. Thank you, your payment and further instructions will arrive in the usual manner." They nod, stepping back almost in union only staying close enough to intervene if something should go wrong.

With Sandor still growling at her back, Sansa isn't worried. 

It feels like she should be doing  _something_ , maybe  _saying_ something relevant, but nothing comes to mind. The man beat her, humiliated her at the command of another and now he's on his knees. "Sandor." She doesn't have to say any  more for him to step forward gun out. The shot echoes off the walls surrounding the warehouse back lot reminding Sansa that the party she was at when the call came gave her a headache. "Thank you." Is all that she can manage as her two employees pick up the corps and disappear into the darkness presumably to dispose of the body.

Sandor digs the car keys out of his pocket opening the front passenger door for her before going around. It feels strange to sit in the front, to have Sandor driving, but since she's made it a rule that no innocent employees are going to be dragged into her sordid history there really isn't any other solution. She unties and pulls off her shoes as soon as the door is closed curling up on the wide front seat. While the coat is big, it still can't cover her as well as she wants, so eventually, Sansa settles on burrows her toes under Sandor's thigh giggling at his grumbled protest. They don't bother with turning on the car lights until they are well away from the abandoned warehouse, and Sansa only relaxes when they are back on the highway speeding towards Sandor's loft. His hand finally unclenches from the steering wheel, falling onto the seat almost too casually to wrap around her right ankle. "Jesus, wench! You're like a block of ice!" He almost yelps, his hand like a brand on her skin.

"I didn't expect to have to wait that long—" She shrugs, it's not much worse than she used to get in her childhood running out of the house to see if any presents were left under the  big pine  in front of the house that got decorated every Christmas and forgetting to put on her slippers. Only then, she could crawl in her father's lap to get warm again...

"Next time get back in the fucking car!" He snaps dragging her feet into his lap, and before she knows it he has his shirt untucked and the fur on the abdomen is ticking at her soles. He curses, his muscles twitching away from the blocks of ice pressing against his skin, but doesn't let go, so Sansa doesn't even bother to struggle, giggling into her fur instead.

Staring out at the dark streets they are passing, Sansa goes over the list of all the people who've hurt her and her family over the years adjusting it by one. There are still a dozen or so people to go before she can be sure that no one will be able to threaten her again...Jaime and Brianne will already be hunting the next person on the list, ready to bring him back for her judgment. She still isn't quite sure how she's ended up with two 'henchmen' as Jaime occasionally calls himself and Brianne disparagingly. Brianne has explained that she'd make a promise to Sansa's mother before her death, and Jaime constantly claims that he has nothing else to do if he wasn't working for Sansa, so she tolerates them. The upside of the two 'knights' working for her is that Sandor doesn't have to leave her every time a lead turns up.

Her shoes get left behind in the car as Sandor carries her to the elevator, and all the way to the bed dropping her among the messy sheets. "Why you can't wear proper clothing?" He sighs, throwing the suit jacket on a nearby chair,  getting out the gun cleaning supplies and clawing at his tie. "This is 'proper clothing' for a gala," Sansa tells him for what feels like the millionth time. The metallic gown shimmers in the light cascading down her body like water, or gray fur like that of the wolf that is her family corporate logo. She watches Sandor clean the gun meticulously in silence, the tension of the kill slowly draining out of her as she warms up. Once Sandor is done, the gun and accessories are put away, he turns back to her, and Sansa has to bite down on a moan. 

Kneeling down on the bed, he captures her ankle before she can crawl away to the other side of the mattress dragging her into his lap. His hungry kiss takes her breath away, almost managing to distract Sansa from the sound of the gown tearing. "Sandor!" She complains still trying to catch her breath, but his hand is already between her legs destroying anotherpair of her panties. His dick slides inside of her, and Sansa stops thinking about all the blood on her hands for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The phone rings annoyingly, especially since Sansa can't quite remember where it ended up the previous night. Wiggling blindly from under the heavy covers and Sandor's arm, she crawls towards the sound, barely managing to keep from tumbling off the bed. When she finally does open her eyes, there is a pile of clothing at the foot of the bed that seems to be the origin of the sound.

Dropping down onto her belly, she roots around among the pile until her hand hits something phone shaped. Changing position seems too much effort, so Sansa picks up still half hanging off the bed, grunting indelicately into the receiver. They shouldn't have gotten drunk in the middle of the week, or more to the point they shouldn't have gotten that drunk, but yesterday was the anniversary, that Sansa positively hates...

Getting drunk with Sandor was better than sitting in a corner crying. 

Her PR manager is on the other end of the line, wondering if cameras will be allowed when she goes to visit her parents' graves and if she's going to be accepting condolences etc. As much as Sansa doesn’t want to think about details like that: as long as she's a public figure there isn't much choice. The dark mood she's been drinking away the previous night threatens to return with a vengeance looming closer with every question the PR manager fires at Sansa's, not quite awake, brain. 

A large, warm hand wrapping around her ankle is her first clue that Sandor is awake as well. Her knees getting shoved apart to make room for him, the slick head of Sandor's very awake dickrooting against her cunt. Sansa tries to kick him away despite her body already starting to heat up just from his proximity alone. His hands spread her open, allowing Sandor to rub himself harder against her core teasing her mercilessly. Sansa has to bite her lip to keep from moaning as the PR manager natters on.  She can feel Sandor laughing soundlessly as he keeps her pinned. Teasing her until Sansa is sopping wet, and struggling not to toss the phone and demand that he fuck her already! She doesn't do it, because she is the boss, and a public figure so doesn't have the luxury to tell the world to go to hell. Not when the business is the only monument to her family that she truly has aside from a couple of slabs of stone in a graveyard. Sandor doesn't agree, but he doesn't protest either so Sansa keeps playing the part of the dutiful daughter. 

He doesn't wait for her to get off the phone but thrusts in as soon as she's wet enough instead: the force of the move leaving her breathless and dizzy with lust. His hand finds its way into her messy hair, the other grabsonto her hip to keep her in place. If she didn't have to be on the phone, Sansa would already be demanding he fuck her hard. She half expects Sandor to pull the phone out of her hand and toss it claiming all of her attention, instead he fucks  her slowly, his hand digging into her hip hard enough to leave a bruise.  Sansa tries to respond to the PR guy with as few words as possible: agree to nothing, and get the man off the phone as fast as she can, so she can either come or kill Sandor for doing this to her. He pulls her head back, covers her body with is own, nuzzling at the back of her neck scraping his teeth across her skin as he gathers her off the bed. Sansa loves that he's strong enough to pick her up and carry her around.Strong enough to pick her up, and reposition Sansa in his lap, sinking deeper into her. Arching her back, and grabbing back at him to keep her balance Sansa tries not to moan into the phone. 

His hands find her breasts, thumbs flicking across tight nipples: teasing and pinching until she manages to pry one of them off and sinks her teeth into the web of skin between thumb and forefinger. Sandor growls or possibly laughs against her hair, pulls his hand out of her grasp, grabs her hips raising her up until just the head of his dick is inside of her, only to drop her again. It's her turn to growl, silencing her surprised employee who finally makes his excuses and gets off the phone. For once Sansa is the one who tosses the phone across the room, happily arching against Sandor's chest, now that she can properly enjoy him. Turning her head, she finds his mouth with her own. "Morning." Sansa manages to moan in-between kisses, squeezing her inner muscles in welcome around him, causing Sandor to fuck her harder. "Little bird—" He captures her earlobe between his teeth tugging at it lightly. He pulls her off his dick despite her protests, tossing Sansa onto the middle of the bed to cover her with his body. Finally, face to face they still, simply feeling each other for long moments their bodies plastered together. Wrapped around each other as they are now, the frantic fuck turns into something far slower that under different circumstances, involving different people, might have been called making love. 

She looks up at Sandor and gets caught in all the things she sees behind his eyes. He's never been much of a talker, and she has gotten out of the habit having learned to play things far closer to her chest. Sansa has learned to read his eyes a while ago, and Sandor's eyes tell her that she is loved, wanted and desired, that he's greedy for both her body and her attention even when barely awake.

"You shouldn't tease like that," he growls into her ear, "when I wake up to the sight of your cunt wiggling in my face I damn well expect to be fucking it soon after." He twists his hips just so, and Sansa bites her lip her muscles going weak with pleasure. "Sorry, Sandor—" She whimpers faking sincerity for a moment before sinking her nails in his back so he'll do it again. Whatever it is he sees in her eyes in return, it seems to satisfy him, makes him relent. Sandor's hand slips between their bodies, fingers finding her clit rubbing the nub mercilessly until she's coming clenching and bucking around him until Sandor spills as well. He sways above her for a moment, face distorted in pleasure before collapsing like a log beside her. His dick slips out of her body much to her regret leaving her whining in displeasure. "Greedy wench." He grumbles, dragging her on top of his body, his hand sliding between her legs to tease as they both catch their breath. 

Sansa purrs contently promising herself that they are going to get up any moment now. Every time Sandor's fingers slide deeper she nips and kisses at his throat switching between scar tissue and stubble covered skin until her lips are raw, and she feels him swell against her belly. Sandor dumps her gently onto the bed, rolling over to spoon against her back pushing her leg up so he can guide himself inside of her again. He fucks her slowly, barely moving while his hand roams her body, murmuring barely distinguishable filth into her ear. 

It's almost enough to make Sansa forget what day it is, if only for a couple of hours.


	5. Chapter 5

Vacations are a rare treat, the allow Sansa to let herself go and act as carefree as her 'normal' compatriots who hadn't had to survive assassination attempts and the run a multinational before the age of twenty. The beach club is loud and busy: bodies slide together on the dance floor until they can't stand the tension any longer and disappear into the darkness further up the beach. Sansa limits herself to dancing, losing herself in the rhythm until all of her responsibilities are a vague memory.

Occasionally she's joined by one of the unattached boys prowling around, but most soon realize that she isn't looking for company. A couple of the boys stick around for another song or two after, others leave at once to look for more available prey. Sansa has always enjoyed dancing with a partner and without, she doesn't pay them a lot of attention aside from polite smiles and short answers when they try to strike up a conversation. The one person she would love to dance with, won't be caught dead in a club, never mind on the dance floor.

Not that he's around anyway.

Sandor couldn't come with her, too busy with sorting out some kind of security breach no one else seems capable of handling. He'd entrusted her safety to the other guards who blend in better with Sansa's current surroundings. Sansa knows that they are somewhere in the crowd, as much as she hates the need for them the knowledge makes her feel safe.

"Come to the beach with me," her latest dance partner yells in her ear over the music wrapping his hand around Sansa's upper arm before she can get a refusal out, pulling her towards the doors. With so many bodies around them, Sansa doesn't have the space to struggle properly until they are in the cool night air. Her dress sticks to her body with sweat, nipples tightening in the cool breeze distracting the boy enough that she can twist out of his grasp.

"No, thank you," turning away she starts back inside to find her guards when the guy grabs her again.

"Now wait a minute, sweetheart. That's not nice!" The boy tells her, sounding so much like Joffrey that she can't help tens. Her hands itch to reach for the razor strapped to her thigh, but Sansa forces her nerves down gritting her teeth and staying polite to avoid a scene, "I'm sorry you feel that way, but I'm not interested," she attempts to pry his hand off again, but the boy tightens his hold anger twisting his face. Sansa wonders what it is about her that calls to creatures like this.

Whatever it is, she'd love to make it disappear. He grabs her other arm ready to drag her off into the darkness forgetting that she's wearing heels. The stiletto's points may not be sharp, but Sansa can kick like a mule thanks to years of ballet. She drives one of them into his foot where it pierces flesh with a satisfying 'pop'. The boy lets go at once cursing and shoving her away, she isn't really surprised when he tries to take a swing at her, missing Sansa by a mile when she twists out of reach.

She isn't sure what happens after that, but the guy is whimpering curled up on the ground by the time she turns around with Sandor looming over him looking annoyed.

"I can't leave you for a fucking day before you get into trouble!" He complains rubbing his knuckles.

Sandor looks rough, and sticks out like a sore thumb in the hip crowd: heavy leather jacket, steel-toe boots and if Sansa knows him, at least one gun just out of sight but within easy reach.

"Sandor!" She greets him happily, distracting her lover from kicking the rude boy's ribs in now that he's conveniently in kicking range. Sansa knows she's going to have to listen to him moaning and cursing about her being more careful about her safety, but for the moment Sansa's just pleased that she isn't going to be spending the rest of her vacation alone. He pulls her into his arms, and Sansa is happy to kiss him 'hello' enjoying his possessiveness, taking the chance that there are no camera's around.

Sandor's hand slides under the skirt of her dress, up her inner thigh and Sansa squirms in silent protest remembering how public the location is. Sandor ignores her protestations, his fingers catching on her smooth skin pleasantly, reminding both of them that if he could have just waited for them to be somewhere more private she'd welcome the touch. The razor she carries is pulled out of its holster leaving a cold spot on her inner thigh, the handle slipping under the edge of her panties to trace the seam of her nether lips before disappearing.

Sandor lets her go, stepping away and tucking the razor into the sleeve of his jacket. "Can't have you armed, Little Bird. When the cops come around to ask questions." She glares at him, but as if to punctuate his words she can hear sirens in the distance fast coming closer.

The boy who tried to assault her has managed to get to his knees, and for an instant, she's tempted to kick him in the face angry with all the men who have tried to take advantage of her over the years. Thankfully Sandor pulls her away, trapping her in an embrace until the officers come to investigate the scene. He takes his jacket off wrapping it around her shoulders, drowning her in the warm leather before going over to talk to the cops and flash his permits. By some miracle, no reporters have come along with the police, and whatever Sandor says to the two officers it's enough for them to take Sansa's statement as efficiently and gently as possible while all around them people gaped and gossip, arresting the still complaining boy in the end.

Soon enough Sandor is allowed to take her away. Sansa follows him into the dark parking lot where a bike is waiting next to the car she used to get there. He must have rented one from somewhere after arriving, the thing has only one helmet that's tossed at her as soon as Sandor has it unlocked. "What about you?" She asks accepting it. "No helmet laws, I'm fine, stop stalling and get on." Already straddling the machine, Sandor pats the seat behind him with an obnoxious smirk. He still likes to scare her on occasion, and making Sansa get on a bike with him gives Sandor plenty of opportunity. Unfortunately for Sandor, she isn't in the mood to be scared. She climbs on making herself comfortable against his back, pressing her breasts against him as she locks her arms around his waist.

The road is poorly lit outside of the tourist village, and empty except for them stretching along the coast into the night. The vibrations of the bike and Sandor's solid presence lull her into an almost meditative state, as she leaves more of her worries behind with every mile. The week ahead of her is suddenly rich with possibilities, outside of the USA they can be anonymous with a little effort, just a regular couple on vacation entertaining themselves. Sansa wiggles closer, rubbing Sandor's abdomen as she thinks. Her fingers trailing down to brush against the heavy belt buckle, and some spirit of wickedness called up by her improving mood takes possession of her making Sansa stroke lower until she's rubbing at the bulge between Sandor's legs. She feels him growl a curse more than she hears it, the wind and helmet depriving her of the familiar sound, still, it vibrates through Sandor's body and into her tightening her nipples into hard points she grinds into the broad back. Sansa isn't surprised that he pulls into the next lookout point they pass instead of driving on.

Twisting around, he hooks an arm around her, dragging Sansa off the bike and into his lap. The cap of the gas tank digs into her back, but Sandor rips her helmet off punishing Sansa for her teasing with a kiss that leaves her breathless. It doesn't keep her from reaching for him again, groping at his dick through the denim and pulling on his belt. "What's gotten into you?" Sandor demands against her lips, large, rough hand wrapping around her throat forcing Sansa to lie back on the tank. 

"Don't think I'll forgive and forget you being an idiot tonight for a handjob!" He tells her, flipping up her skirt, and fingering the flimsy cotton of her panties thoughtfully.

"How about a blowjob?" She asks innocently arching as best she can into his touch, hoping to hell the bike won't topple.

"Now?" He demands after a moment's thought.

Out in the open, where anyone can come upon them, the request is outrageous and indecent, it sends a thrill down Sansa's spine. "Give me back my knife." She orders, bracing her leg against his shoulder, making sure for the heel digs in just a little. He studies her, mute in rebellion and Sansa half expects him to ignore the demand when he reaches for her arm fishing the item in question out of a hidden pocket on the inside of the sleeve: dragging it up her arm and shoulder to press it lightly to the hollow of her throat.

"I should just slit your throat and dump you in the sea," he grumbles, dragging the sharpish edge of the safety clasp down between her breasts.

Sansa puts more pressure on her heel, "why don't you then?"

Sandor flicks the blade open faster than her eyes can catch, and her panties are in shreds. The cold metal of the blade against her sensitive skin making her squirm. He closes the knife by pushing it between her folds, unholy enjoyment burning in his eyes. It is a madness that occasionally rears its ugly head in one or both of them.

"Waste of decent cunt." He decides, putting the knife back in its sheath. Grabbing her ankle, he throws her over and Sansa is on her knees next to the bike before she can even yelp her shock, Sandor looming over her.

"Bastard!" The asphalt digs into her bare knees, but she doesn’t really care. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Sansa snarls up at him as Sandor practically rips his belt off and tears his jeans in his urgency to free himself.

"Do it!" He snarls, burying his hand in her hair and pulling Sansa towards his cock. She considers fighting, prolonging their game, but decides against it eventually submitting to the pull. There are other ways to get even with her lover, ones that will leave both of them sated.

He's hot and already a little damp against her cheek, silky against her cheek when she nuzzles at him mouthing slowly up and down along the side. From the way, the muscles of his leg jump under her hands Sansa knows she's fighting to keep from shoving himself down her throat. Despite the savagery of the previous moments, Sandor holds back, lets Sansa do as she pleases, take him in at her own speed. Just tease him a little, Sansa scratches as much of his inner thigh as she can reach while lapping and sucking at the head of his dick. She moans around him and sucks harder, pulling his balls from their confinement to roll and squeeze them gently as she sucks.

Sandor curses above her, his hand shaking where it is tangled in her hair. His other hand grabbing at the saddle of the bike, the leather squeaking from the force of his grip.

"Fuck girl, you're gonna be the death of me," he groans, and Sansa slips a hand between her legs stroking herself and pinching her clit. Her fingers slip and slide inside her cunt, she's soaking wet just from listening to him curse, from sucking him outside where anyone can catch them. Sansa moans around the dick in her mouth stroking herself, pushing fingers deeper and deeper into her cunt, clenching around them. "If your little friends could see you now! On your knees like a common whore," Like he hadn't found her hiding out in a cat house in Vegas.

"Come on girl! Harder!" She pulls at his balls while sucking harder, setting him off cursing again.

Pulling off to catch her breath, Sansa looks up to see her lover's hunger and isn't disappointed. "Get on with it wench!" He orders, in a tone closer to a prayer and she, decides to be merciful. She takes him deep fighting not to gag, drooling and gasping, flicking her clit roughly to get herself off as well. Sansa looks up, meets his eyes and holds his gaze until he shudders and pushes her back. His come lands on her face and front of his jacket making a mess of her as Sansa as she moans in annoyance.

If they hadn't been in the open, she could have swallowed him down, felt him go soft in her mouth before pulling off. Instead, Sansa concentrates on rocking against her hand eager for her own release. Sandor falls heavily onto his knees beside her, jerks her to his chest his tongue thrusting into her mouth as his fingers join hers fucking into her until she comes sinking her teeth into his lip and leaving him bleeding. "Jesus wench—," he wipes the blood off his chin, "If I'd known you were this hard up—," the way he looks at her, she has to reach up and kiss him still breathless and dizzy. "I'm on vacation." She reminds him primly once she manages to finally catch her breath, tugging at his shirt to clean off her face.

"Better not have jumped one of your other guards," he reaches for her but remembers his fingers are still wet with her. Sansa groans watching him lick his fingers clean before getting up.

"I'd make you sleep on the couch for even thinking that!" Not that some of her other guards aren't attractive, but she can't imagine herself sleeping with any of them, not with Sandor around. He drags her upright, and Sansa is grateful she hadn't been booked into a hotel because she's a complete mess and can't do anything to make it any better.

"But you won't will you, Little Bird?" He pulls her close, kisses her again and Sansa is almost tempted to forgive him.

"Maybe. We'll see after you get me back home." He chuckles straddling the bike and helping her on. "And if you promise to take me dancing."

"I don't fucking dance!" He snaps revving the engine.

"I'll teach you," she tells him with relish.

His curses are drowned out by the sound of the bike and ocean.        


	6. Chapter 6

She leaves the shower while still fiddling with her pinned up hair, half dressed in only stockings and panties but her makeup already perfect when a hungry growl startles her into looking up. "Sometimes you really do act like a dog," Sansa tells her bodyguard who's barged in without knocking. Sandor looks out of place in the designer hotel room even if he's wearing a tuxedo, and the way he's looking at her—She shakes those thoughts out of her mind, looks at the clock, and curses.

"That supposed to put me in my place?" He takes a sip from a half-filled tumbler, Sansa imagines that he'll stink of whiskey by the end of the night.

"You should have let me know when you came in." Sansa unpacks the jewelry cases she brought along as part of the outfit fixing the emerald earrings and bracelet first. When she reaches for the collier, Sandor is behind her all of a sudden catching her hands before she can put it on.

"You can bitch at me later, girl." He tells her, picking up the heavy jewelry to drape it across her collarbones. It takes him far longer than it would take her to fasten the clasp properly, and when Sandor is done his hands find her breasts cupping them greedily as he pulls her tighter against his body. "Otherwise you'll be late." His thumbs flick her nipples already tight from the cool air and his proximity. She wants to protest, but he's hard against her lower back eager and ready. If they had the time...

"When you're done for the night, I don't care how tired you are: I'm going to fuck you just like this." He growls in her ear, his scars scraping against her jaw and throat sending a shiver down her spine.

"Let go! You're going to ruin my hair!" Sansa wiggles against him until she can catch his hands and force them away. Sandor licks sloppily across the back of her neck in retaliation but allows her to step away. Stepping into her dress, Sansa regrets that they really don't have any time to play. Her lover rarely gets playful, even when they should be safe he is often on his guard distrustful of everyone around. Occasionally she wonders if she would see this side of him more often if they weren't stranded on a deserted island somewhere for example.

At least since they are in a suite Sansa will have the pleasure of having him in her bed for the night under the guise of having him guarding her door. He steps up to zip her up, cursing softly in annoyance at the amount of skin the dress leaves bare, and Sansa finds herself giggling as she turns to push him away with a final kiss.

Striding out of the room, Sansa pulls back behind the business woman mask smiling graciously at the people who welcome her into the ballroom and ignoring the decidedly grumpy presence at her back. Laughing and talking with people she doesn't like seems to get exhausting with every week, soon enough Sansa finds herself escaping onto one of the balconies to enjoy a moment of silence in the shadow. "Bored already?" A part of the night that is Sandor mocks, startling her. She backs into a corner further into the shadows and out of sight of the people in the ballroom. "Or are you done whoring your company around?" Sansa wants to bite back, but before she gets a word out Sandor's hand has found the slit in the skirt of her dress pushing up until she feels his fingers brush her through the lace of her panties. "You're wet, girl. Is that from all the rich bastards drooling over you, or—"

"Damn it, Sandor!" She curses as loud as she dares, fighting back a moan when his thumb presses against her clit. His fingers tease her lips, slipping into her without much effort and Sansa sinks her nails in the back of his neck jerking him close. He grins into the kiss, keeps on fucking her with his fingers all the while forcing Sansa to fight to stay quiet, fight to keep her make-up from getting completely messed up. Part of her is tempted to grab him by the balls, force Sandor back and go back inside, or make him off in his trousers and leave him to deal with the mess on his own. Only his fingers feel too good: slow and rough rubbing just right. Under different circumstances, he would have her sobbing and cursing him at the top of her lungs, as is Sansa hisses at him sinking her teeth into his throat to keep quiet leaving lipstick smudges on his collar. "Get me off, now!" Her growl might not be on par with his, but she feels the shiver that runs down Sandor's spine and his fingers go deeper, rub harder until she is shaking with lust, shoves his fingers in her mouth to smother her moans as she comes. "That do you, boss?"He grunts in her ear, stepping away to lick his hand clean.

"Bastard!"She snaps wondering how the hell she's going to make it to the bathroom to fix her makeup. Watching him enjoy her taste, makes her want more, only they can't: not with the party around the corner, not when Sansa still has business to attend to. Once he's done licking his hand clean, Sandor gets a small bag out of his inner pocket offering it to her. It turns out to contain her necessities and a small mirror, she glares at him and considers kicking him in the shin, but that might encourage him to worse behavior. "I need another hour, maybe two if everyone insists on observing the social niceties." She'd prefer to go already, have him make good on his threat or maybe just go out somewhere loud, crowded and anonymous where no one will recognize her and dance. Unfortunately, there are people who depend on her, a business that needs her to make the tough calls, do the things no one else dares to do.

Checking her dress and face one last time, Sansa returns the bag to Sandor running her hand down his chest and abdomen to rub the ample bulge between his legs just hard enough to make his breath hitch and walks away.   


End file.
